Chapter Text
The morning light crept through the blinds in lazy stripes, tracing its way across tangled limbs and the soft sprawl of rumpled sheets. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon candles and something sweeter still, skin, sleep, and the remnants of shared laughter that had carried them long past midnight. Mary Jane stirred first, blinking against the golden glow, her body warm and comfortably heavy from the night before. Felicia’s arm was draped over her waist, possessive even in sleep, her fingers curled loosely against her hip.
For a moment, Mary Jane just lay there, studying her. Felicia’s platinum hair was an untamed halo against the pillow, her face softened in the quiet of morning. It made her look younger, vulnerable even, though Mary Jane knew better than to underestimate her. She smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from Felicia’s cheek before whispering, “Morning, sleepyhead.”
Felicia groaned into the pillow, refusing to move. “Tell morning to come back in a few hours,” she muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Or better, cancel it entirely.”
“You have farm work,” Mary Jane reminded, sitting up and stretching, her robe slipping down one shoulder. “You said you’d help Peter load hay bales before breakfast.”
Felicia’s eyes cracked open, suspiciously slow. “And you believed me?” she said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You really are too trusting.”
Mary Jane laughed softly, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Come on. You can’t charm your way out of this one. You’re already late.”
Felicia groaned again, this time rolling out of bed with dramatic reluctance. The floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she rummaged through the heap of clothes that had ended up scattered the night before, shirts, jeans, underwear tangled with ribbons of wrapping paper from last night’s “gift prep that turned into undressing.” After a few minutes of searching, she straightened, frowning. “Where’s my shirt?”
Mary Jane, sipping from her mug at the dresser, feigned innocence. “Which one?”
“The only one I wore here last night,” Felicia said, crossing her arms. “You didn’t…”
“I might have helped it disappear,” Mary Jane said sweetly, setting her mug down. “You have… options.”
“Options?” Felicia repeated warily. “Like what?”
Mary Jane turned, holding something behind her back with a mischievous grin. “Close your eyes.”
“MJ,” Felicia warned, but complied anyway, mostly because she was curious, and a little because she couldn’t resist that tone.
Mary Jane revealed it with a flourish: a deep green Christmas sweater that could only be described as aggressively festive. Sequins, tinsel-thread embroidery, and the pièce de résistance, a stitched cartoon of Catwoman in a Santa hat with the words “Purr-fectly Naughty” emblazoned across the chest.
Felicia blinked. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Mary Jane bit her lip, failing to contain a laugh. “You’d look adorable.”
“I’d look like a cautionary tale.”
“Exactly,” MJ said cheerfully. “A sexy cautionary tale.”
Felicia tossed her head back and groaned. “You are evil.”
“You say that like it’s news.” Mary Jane held the sweater out, unyielding. “Now put it on, or I’ll drive you to the farm in my robe and slippers.”
Felicia squinted at her, half amused, half horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
With a dramatic sigh that might’ve belonged in a Shakespearean tragedy, Felicia snatched the sweater. “Fine. But only because it’s cold.”
Mary Jane grinned in triumph as Felicia tugged the oversized monstrosity over her head. The sweater swallowed her whole — sleeves a bit too long, hem brushing her hips, the sequins catching the light in a thousand obnoxious flashes. Somehow, though, Felicia still managed to make it look almost… chic. Infuriatingly so.
Mary Jane took a step back, admiring the sight. “You look ridiculous,” she said affectionately.
“I hope you’re happy,” Felicia muttered, trying to flatten one of the sequined ears.
“Very,” MJ said, reaching for her keys. “Now let’s get you to work before Peter thinks you’ve fallen into a haystack.”
The drive was wrapped in the gentle hush of early morning. Frost still clung to the edges of the windshield, the radio humming quietly with an old Bing Crosby tune. Mary Jane drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat, stealing glances at Felicia, who sat slouched in the passenger seat, arms folded, chin tucked into the neckline of the offending sweater.
“You’re sulking,” MJ observed, amused.
“I’m surviving humiliation,” Felicia corrected. “Big difference.”
“Oh, come on, you look festive.”
“I look like a hostage in a Christmas movie.”
Mary Jane laughed. “I can’t wait to see Gwen’s face.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“She’s going to love it,” MJ continued, undeterred. “Peter too. He’ll probably want one.”
Felicia turned to her, deadpan. “You’re cruel.”
“And yet,” Mary Jane said, glancing sideways, “you keep sleeping with me.”
Felicia smirked. “That’s because you’re worth enduring public ridicule for.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this week.”
The banter carried them most of the way, the farm coming into view as the sun climbed higher — rows of snow-dusted fences, the barn roof glittering under a pale winter sky. Felicia stared out the window, her smirk softening into something quieter. She’d grown used to this place — the quiet rhythm of it, the way the Parkers always made her feel like part of something bigger. It wasn’t home, not yet, but it felt dangerously close.
When MJ parked, she turned to Felicia. “I’ll pick you up after dinner,” she said. “We’re doing something warm tonight.”
“Warm?” Felicia raised a brow. “That sounds suspicious.”
Mary Jane smiled, slow and knowing. “Hot cocoa tasting. Maybe a little something stronger mixed in.”
Felicia chuckled, tugging at her sweater. “So, alcohol?”
“Something like that,” MJ said, her tone laced with tease. “You’ll see.”
Felicia hesitated for a moment, her fingers tracing absent circles on her thigh. “You don’t have to keep picking me up, you know. I can meet you.”
“I want to,” MJ said simply, looking straight at her. “Besides, I like having an excuse to see you grumpy in the mornings.”
Felicia shook her head, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, that faint, reluctant smile that made MJ’s heart twist in the best way. “You really do like pushing your luck.”
Mary Jane leaned over the console, her voice soft. “Someone has to.”
Felicia met her gaze, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she sighed, opening the door, the cold air rushing in. “Fine. Pick me up at six,” she said, stepping out. “But I’m burning this sweater before you see it again.”
“Please don’t,” MJ called after her. “It’s art!”
Felicia turned back, walking backward toward the barn with a grin that was all sharp edges and affection. “You’re lucky I like you, Watson.”
“I know,” MJ said softly, more to herself than anything, as she watched Felicia disappear around the corner.
Inside the barn, the morning routine was already underway. Gwen was balancing a bucket of feed, Peter wrestling with a stack of hay bales, the smell of straw and coffee mingling in the crisp air. When Felicia walked in, they both froze.
“Wow,” Peter said after a beat, his grin immediate. “That’s… festive.”
“Don’t,” Felicia warned, voice low.
Gwen clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Is that… Catwoman?”
“Apparently,” Felicia said, unamused. “Courtesy of Mary Jane.”
“Oh, I love it,” Gwen said, genuinely delighted. “You look—”
“Don’t say adorable.”
“I was going to say seasonally appropriate,” Gwen lied. Poorly.
Peter leaned against a post, smirking. “MJ’s influence suits you.”
Felicia shot him a look sharp enough to cut through hay. “Keep talking, Parker, and I’ll make sure your next bale mysteriously finds its way onto your car roof.”
Peter held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying, nice to see you in the spirit.”
Felicia rolled her eyes, muttering something about revenge under her breath, but the faint pink in her cheeks gave her away.
The morning unfolded in a familiar rhythm, the work steady, the conversation easy. Felicia found herself humming again, some melody she couldn’t quite place. Between tasks, her thoughts drifted, to the sweater, to MJ’s laughter, to the promise of cocoa and candles later that evening. It hit her, somewhere between the feeding troughs and the frost-stiff grass, that she didn’t want to leave when this assignment ended.
The realization lodged in her chest like a spark catching light. She’d told herself this was temporary, a seasonal experiment, a distraction, a flirtation between work and warmth. But now, as she watched the sunrise bleed through the barn slats and thought of Mary Jane’s grin in the driver’s seat, it didn’t feel temporary at all. It felt inevitable.
When Gwen called her name, Felicia blinked back to the moment.
“Everything okay?” Gwen asked, wiping her hands on her overalls.
“Yeah,” Felicia said, offering a small, almost shy smile. “Just thinking.”
“About tonight?” Gwen teased.
Felicia smirked. “Something like that.”
As she turned back to her work, her fingers brushed over the sequined Catwoman stitched onto her sweater, and for once, she didn’t hate it.
Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t so bad to wear something ridiculous, not when it made someone she cared about laugh that hard.
---
That afternoon had turned soft and cold in that particular way December liked best, pale sunlight filtering through gauzy clouds, the air smelling faintly of hay, frost, and pine. The farm hummed with quiet activity: the sound of hooves crunching through thin snow, laughter from visitors who had come to see the reindeer, and Gwen’s distant voice explaining something about animal behavior to a group of bundled-up children.
Felicia had been assigned to the reindeer pen for the afternoon, her job mostly to make sure visitors followed the rules: no chasing, no shouting, let the animals come to you if they want. She’d spent enough time here now that the animals trusted her; they nudged her side when she walked by, recognizing her scent. Her ridiculous Christmas sweater, green and red, with "Meowy Christmas" stitched under a stitched figure of Catwoman holding a candy cane, drew plenty of comments from passing families.
She’d been grumbling about it all morning. Mary Jane’s handiwork. Of course.
She was still thinking about that when she noticed a small boy standing just outside the fence, clutching his mittens in his tiny hands, his bottom lip trembling. He couldn’t have been older than three. His dark hair curled at the ends, and his wide green eyes stared uncertainly at the nearest reindeer, a gentle old doe with a white muzzle and patient eyes.
“Hey there,” Felicia said softly, crouching down so they were eye level. “You thinking about saying hello to her?”
The boy shook his head, his voice a whisper. “She’s big.”
“She is,” Felicia agreed with a smile. “But you know what? She’s also a big softie. See those ears? She turns them when she listens. She’s curious about you.”
“She’s… curious?”
“Mhmm. Animals are funny like that. If you stand still and wait, sometimes they come over just to see what kind of person you are.”
The boy peeked at her again, his mittened fingers fidgeting. “Will she bite?”
“Only if you taste like carrots,” Felicia teased.
He gave a small giggle, and for a moment, the fear in his shoulders melted away. Felicia smiled, that small victory kind of smile that warmed her from the inside — and extended her hand toward the fence. “Why don’t you hold your hand out, just like this? Don’t move it, don’t reach. If she wants to say hi, she’ll come to you.”
The boy hesitated, but then lifted his little hand next to hers. The reindeer’s ears twitched; she lifted her head, sniffed the air, and after a pause, walked forward with slow, careful steps. When her nose brushed against the boy’s mitten, he gasped, a sound of pure awe.
“She likes you,” Felicia said quietly.
“She’s soft,” he whispered, petting her nose gently, giggling as the reindeer nudged him again.
“You’re a natural,” Felicia said.
“Tommy!” a voice called from behind them.
The boy turned toward the sound, smiling when a tall redhead and a shorter woman with auburn hair approached, each carrying a toddler in matching coats. The redhead’s green eyes softened at the sight of her son. “There you are. I thought you’d chickened out.”
“I petted the deer, Mama!”
The auburn-haired woman laughed, her accent faint but warm. “You did? Brave boy.” She turned to Felicia. “Thank you for helping him.”
Felicia stood, brushing the hay off her jeans. “He did all the hard work.”
The shorter woman, Natasha, extended a gloved hand. “I’m Natasha. This is my wife, Wanda. And these two are Tommy and Billy.”
Felicia nodded with a smile. “Felicia. Nice to meet you all.”
The second boy, Billy, was peeking curiously from behind Wanda’s leg. “Kitty,” he said suddenly, pointing a tiny mittened finger at Felicia’s sweater.
Natasha blinked before laughing. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
Wanda grinned, crossing her arms. “You do look a bit like a festive cat burglar.”
Felicia looked down at her sweater and rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me. My... uh... friend thought it’d be funny.”
“Friend?” Wanda’s tone was amused in that knowing way, the kind that made Felicia feel like she’d walked right into a trap.
“Mm. The kind who makes your morning coffee and disappears your actual shirt,” Felicia said dryly.
Natasha smirked. “Sounds like someone’s in deep trouble.”
“Or deeply smitten,” Wanda added, earning a raised brow from her wife.
“Let’s not start matchmaking, dear.”
Wanda just smiled innocently, crouching beside the boys. “Come on, let’s say goodbye to the nice lady so she can keep working.”
“Bye, Kitty!” both twins said in unison, waving wildly.
Felicia waved back, warmth rising in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound of children’s laughter, unfiltered, sincere. The boys turned back toward the pen, watching the reindeer wander, and Natasha lingered a moment.
“You’re good with kids,” she said simply.
Felicia shrugged, smiling. “Guess so. They’re easier to deal with than adults. Less judgmental.”
Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “True enough. Though they do repeat everything you say.”
Wanda chuckled. “Learned that the hard way.”
Felicia tilted her head, studying them for a moment. There was an easy kind of love between them, steady, old, well-worn in the best sense. The kind that didn’t need showing off. Wanda leaned slightly toward Natasha when she laughed, and Natasha’s hand brushed hers absentmindedly, like a reflex.
Felicia found herself asking, before she could stop it, “Was it hard to stay? In a quiet place like this?”
Natasha’s expression softened with memory. “Years ago, I came to a little town in Massachusetts during autumn,” she said. “Fell in love with someone stubborn enough to make me stay. After that, quiet wasn’t so bad.”
“Do you miss traveling?”
“Sometimes,” Natasha admitted. “But when I do, I have company. Flying across the ocean with twins isn’t something I’d recommend, though.”
Wanda laughed, leaning her head against her wife’s shoulder. “Especially when they both decided that sleep was optional somewhere over the Atlantic.”
“That sounds… intense,” Felicia said, smiling.
“It’s life,” Natasha said simply. “Messy, loud, beautiful.”
They exchanged goodbyes then, the twins waving again before Wanda guided them toward the main barn. Felicia watched them go, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets.
The wind bit her cheeks, and she looked out toward the field, where the reindeer grazed in the faint sunlight. For a long moment, she just stood there — the soft sound of hooves on snow, children’s laughter drifting from the barn, and a faint echo of her own heartbeat slowing down.
Something about that family lingered in her thoughts. The kind of quiet Natasha spoke of, a life that wasn’t about constant motion or escape, but about choosing where you wanted to be.
Felicia thought of Mary Jane, the way she laughed when she teased, the way she looked at her over coffee, the warmth in her voice when she said she’d pick her up later that night for “something like” hot cocoa.
The thought of her made the cold a little less sharp.
Maybe, Felicia thought, standing there in her stupid cat sweater and snow-dusted boots, she could understand what Natasha meant. Maybe, for once, she didn’t have to be running from something to find herself standing still in the right place.
She glanced up at the sound of Gwen’s voice calling her name. “Felicia! You’re supposed to be helping Peter with the feed buckets, not collecting admirers!”
Felicia grinned, brushing off her hands and calling back, “I was networking!”
“Yeah, well, network your way to the barn!”
---
The sky was darkening when Felicia heard the familiar rumble of the pickup pulling into the gravel lot by the barn. The snow that had been little more than a dusting in the morning now came down in quiet, steady flakes, turning the world soft and silver. She tugged off her gloves, rubbed her arms to chase away the chill, and smiled when she saw the glint of headlights slice through the evening fog.
Mary Jane stepped out of the truck, her scarf wound loosely around her neck, a red that looked alive in the fading light. She smiled, that warm, unhurried smile that always felt like a secret. “Hey, farm girl,” she called, leaning against the hood. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”
Felicia laughed, tossing her bag over her shoulder as she approached. “Please. If I have to shovel one more pile of hay, I might stage a coup.”
Mary Jane grinned, opening the passenger door. “Then your getaway chariot awaits.”
Felicia slid into the seat, brushing snow off her hair. The cab smelled faintly like coffee and vanilla, and something else, something distinctly Mary Jane. A soft hum came from the radio, a Sinatra Christmas tune threading its way through the quiet as MJ climbed in beside her.
Once the truck rolled onto the road, Felicia stretched her legs and leaned back, exhaling the day out of her shoulders. “So,” she said, glancing sideways, “what’s the plan? You said we were doing some kind of tasting?”
Mary Jane’s lips curved. “Mmm. A surprise.”
Felicia arched an eyebrow. “You and your surprises. Should I be concerned?”
“Probably,” MJ teased, eyes on the road. “But it’ll be worth it.”
The drive carried them through winding country roads lined with pines dusted in white. The snow thickened as they went, flakes whirling in the glow of the headlights, a dreamlike haze that made everything quieter.
After a while, MJ said softly, “I’ve been working on something for tonight.”
Felicia turned toward her. “Working on something?”
“Mm-hmm.” She smiled faintly, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “You’ll see. But first: food. You look like you’ve been surviving on coffee and animal feed.”
“Rude but accurate,” Felicia said with a smirk. “So, restaurant?”
“Restaurant,” MJ confirmed. “A little place I found a few towns over. Good food, quiet corner tables.”
Felicia hummed approvingly. “You’re learning my love language.”
“Food or privacy?”
“Both,” she said, and MJ’s laughter filled the cab, light and infectious.
The restaurant was small, one of those tucked-away places that smelled like garlic, butter, and something freshly baked. A string of fairy lights hung across the window, and a small Christmas tree stood in the corner with mismatched ornaments. It was cozy in the way that only winter evenings could be.
They were shown to a booth near the back. MJ shrugged off her coat, shaking snow from her hair, and Felicia couldn’t help but stare for a moment. There was something about her in the soft lamplight, the casual grace, the slight smudge of lipstick from the cold, the warmth in her eyes when she met Felicia’s gaze.
“Something on my face?” MJ asked, amused.
“Beauty,” Felicia replied, deadpan.
MJ laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere, Hardy.”
“That’s the idea.”
They ordered without thinking much about it, warm bread, pasta, something sweet to share. It was easy, the kind of dinner that didn’t need filling with small talk. Between bites, they talked about the day: Felicia’s run-in with the reindeer pen, how one of the twins had called her kitty, and how Gwen had teased her mercilessly about the sweater.
MJ nearly choked on her drink laughing. “Oh my god. The universe gave me that sweater for a reason.”
“You made that sweater.”
“Exactly.”
Felicia pretended to glare, but her grin gave her away. “You’re evil.”
“Seasonally evil,” MJ corrected. “It’s festive mischief.”
They lingered over dessert, sharing a slice of pie and swapping stories about holidays gone wrong, burnt cookies, forgotten presents, family chaos. For all the teasing, the warmth between them felt real, almost heavy in the air.
When the check came, MJ reached for it, but Felicia’s hand landed on hers first. “Let me.”
MJ tilted her head. “You’re buying?”
“Consider it payback for the sweater.”
MJ smirked. “You’re going to have to do a lot more than that to make up for it.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Good.”
They stepped out into the snow, the wind soft and cold against their faces. MJ’s breath misted in the air as she walked beside Felicia toward the truck, but instead of opening the door, she pointed down the street.
“Pub’s just around the corner. Ready for part two?”
Felicia raised a brow. “Hot chocolate?”
MJ’s eyes sparkled. “Hot chocolate.”
The pub was glowing with golden light, laughter spilling from inside. On the counter waited a small row of bottles, labeled neatly, some with names and notes scribbled in MJ’s handwriting.
“Seven kinds,” MJ said proudly, holding up the box. “Some with peppermint liqueur, one with Baileys, one with… something special.”
Felicia leaned in. “Special how?”
MJ lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Let’s just say the smell alone might make you want to nap in a snowbank.”
Felicia’s laughter echoed softly. “You made weed hot chocolate?”
“Experimental journalism,” MJ said, mock serious. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
They stepped outside again, hot chocolates in hand, the snow swirling around them. The night was quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed, like the world was holding its breath. MJ linked her arm through Felicia’s as they walked down the lamplit street, boots crunching softly through fresh snow.
“God, it’s beautiful,” MJ murmured.
“It is.”
They passed shop windows glowing with holiday lights, the smell of pine and cinnamon drifting through the cold air. MJ’s hand brushed Felicia’s once, twice, before settling against her arm again. The warmth of her skin seeped through layers of fabric.
Felicia glanced sideways, voice low. “You’re really into this Christmas thing, huh?”
MJ smiled, eyes soft. “Maybe I just needed the right company.”
Something in the way she said it made Felicia’s chest tighten, that simple, quiet honesty that slipped past her defenses. The snow fell heavier, flakes catching in their hair, and MJ laughed, brushing one off Felicia’s shoulder.
“You’ve got snow on your lashes,” she murmured, and then leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Felicia’s cheek.
Felicia froze, only for a heartbeat, before smiling, slow and helpless. “You missed,” she said softly.
“Maybe next time I won’t.”
They kept walking, MJ’s laughter curling around them like smoke.
When they reached the truck again, Felicia brushed snow off the hood, grinning. “So… seven bottles of hot chocolate. This is how you plan to get me sugar-drunk?”
“Something like that,” MJ said, tossing her the keys. “We’ll wait until we’re home. I don’t want you falling asleep before the fun starts.”
Felicia’s smirk deepened as she opened the passenger door. “Define fun.”
MJ leaned in close, her breath warm against the winter air. “You’ll see.”
Mary Jane’s little house glowed from the inside, the warmth of lamps and firelight blurring against the frost-laced windows. When they entered, both of them laughing at the cloud of mist that followed them in, Felicia closed the door behind her and felt the day’s cold roll off her like a shawl.
“Home sweet home,” Mary Jane said, shaking snow from her curls. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her lips bright from laughing. She held up the paper bag that had clinked with promise all through the drive back. “Tonight, my dear Miss Hardy, we conduct a very scientific study.”
Felicia raised a brow, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it up by the door. “Scientific, huh? You sure it’s not just an excuse to get me drunk on chocolate?”
Mary Jane shrugged, smirking as she unloaded the bottles on the counter. “Can’t it be both? Besides, it’s the holidays. The only real rule is that you can’t take yourself too seriously.”
Felicia crossed the kitchen, hip-bumping her playfully as she passed. “I’m not sure you’re one to talk about taking things seriously, Ms. Watson. You alphabetized your spice rack.”
Mary Jane swatted her with a dish towel, laughing. “Organization is not a crime. Now go sit. I’ll handle the first round.”
Felicia obeyed, flopping onto the couch where a blanket already waited. The TV’s standby light blinked at her, a promise of cozy escapism. She toed off her boots and tucked her legs beneath her, watching Mary Jane move about the kitchen with the kind of domestic ease that made something tight in her chest loosen.
Steam soon filled the air, fragrant and thick with cocoa, sugar, and something faintly spicy, cinnamon or nutmeg. Mary Jane carried two mugs back to the couch, handing one to Felicia with a mock-bow.
“First contender,” she said, settling beside her. “Classic milk chocolate, with a hint of peppermint schnapps. It’s supposed to taste like Christmas spirit in a cup.”
Felicia took a sip, the warmth flooding down her throat and spreading through her like a heartbeat. “Oh,” she sighed, “that’s unfairly good.”
Mary Jane watched her over the rim of her mug, lips twitching. “So it’s a hit?”
“Definitely.” Felicia took another sip, then met her gaze. “But the company makes it better.”
“Flattery will not win you the judging,” Mary Jane teased, though her eyes softened as she leaned back, their shoulders brushing.
The movie flickered to life — Die Hard, Felicia’s unapologetic Christmas classic. “Best Christmas movie of all time,” she declared.
Mary Jane groaned dramatically. “You’re impossible. It’s not even about Christmas!”
“There’s a tree, there’s music, there’s redemption and explosions. What more do you want?”
Mary Jane chuckled, nestling closer under the blanket. “You’re a menace.”
The first cocoa disappeared easily, laughter filling the room along with the sharp quips of Bruce Willis echoing from the TV. When the mugs were empty, Mary Jane got up for the next round, a darker brew, thicker, the scent rich and heady.
“This one’s from Belgium,” she said, handing it over. “Supposedly the best in the world.”
Felicia sniffed it. “Smells like sin.”
“That’s why I saved it for round two.”
They clinked mugs, a little too theatrically, and sipped. The taste was deeper, almost bitter, but the sweetness followed like a whisper. Felicia watched the play of firelight over Mary Jane’s face, how it traced her jaw, her throat, the delicate bones near her collar.
“You look like you belong in one of those holiday ads,” Felicia said softly.
Mary Jane blinked, a little startled by the sincerity in her voice. “With cocoa mustaches and fake snow?”
“Yeah,” Felicia said. “But you’d make it look real.”
The air shifted then, softer, slower. Mary Jane’s hand brushed Felicia’s knee under the blanket, lingering. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the movie, the snow, the world outside, all of it blurred into the quiet hum between them.
Then Mary Jane smiled, breaking the spell gently. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Hardy. We still have five to go.”
The next few rounds passed in warm waves, one with caramel and sea salt, another spiked with hazelnut liqueur that made Mary Jane giggle uncontrollably when Felicia mispronounced Frangelico. The more they drank, the easier it was to laugh, to lean into one another, to touch without thinking too hard about what it meant.
At some point, Mary Jane started quoting Die Hard lines in a poor imitation of Bruce Willis’s gravelly voice. Felicia nearly choked on her drink laughing. “That is… not your strong suit.”
“Shut up, I’m festive,” Mary Jane retorted, eyes shining. “Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker and all that.”
Felicia grinned, watching her from over the rim of her mug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Lucky?” Mary Jane’s smile tilted. “You’re the one who gets to sit next to me.”
Round six came with cream whipped thick enough to leave traces on Felicia’s lip. Mary Jane reached over with her thumb, wiping it away. Her fingers lingered just a second too long.
“You’re messy,” she whispered.
“Maybe you like it,” Felicia murmured back.
Mary Jane didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth curved as she looked down at her mug, hiding a smile she couldn’t quite fight.
By the time they reached the final cup, the one laced with something stronger, earthier, they were both sunk deep into the couch, the movie long over, replaced by the quiet of snow pattering softly against the windows. The cocoa tasted sweet and strange, like flowers and smoke.
Felicia set her cup down and turned toward Mary Jane. “That one’s dangerous,” she said.
Mary Jane nodded, eyes a little hazy. “You feel it too?”
Felicia hummed in assent. “I feel… everything.”
The silence that followed was full and tender. Mary Jane’s hand found its way to Felicia’s, fingers tracing her knuckles before threading between them. “You always make it feel easy,” she said quietly.
Felicia tilted her head, her voice low. “What?”
“This,” Mary Jane said. “Us.”
Felicia exhaled slowly, her thumb brushing the back of Mary Jane’s hand. “Maybe it is easy.”
Mary Jane turned to her then, close enough that Felicia could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, could feel the ghost of her breath on her skin. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be,” she murmured.
Felicia smiled faintly. “You overthink everything.”
“Only when it matters,” Mary Jane whispered.
Felicia leaned in, closing the small space between them. The kiss was slow, tasting faintly of chocolate and warmth and something heavier, the kind of closeness that made time spill apart. Mary Jane’s hands slid up into her hair, pulling her closer, and Felicia’s hand came to rest on Mary Jane’s waist, thumb tracing slow circles. When they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breathing in the same small rhythm.
“Best cocoa tasting ever,” Mary Jane said, her voice soft with laughter.
Felicia smiled against her. “You sure it’s not the company?”
“Maybe both,” Mary Jane whispered, kissing her again, a small, tender promise between the snow and the firelight.
Outside, the snow kept falling, slow and endless, and inside, wrapped in blankets and half-finished mugs, the world narrowed to the warmth of skin and laughter and the faint smell of cocoa still clinging to the air.
They didn’t bother to turn off the lights or tidy the table. Felicia’s head found Mary Jane’s shoulder, and Mary Jane’s fingers drew idle shapes against her arm.
“You realize,” Mary Jane murmured as her eyelids began to droop, “that you’ve officially made Die Hard a romantic movie in my mind.”
Felicia chuckled softly. “Good. Mission accomplished.”